


Gasoline

by TheRoseKingofLegend (TheRoseKingOfLegend)



Category: Badlands - Halsey (Album), Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: I may have cried a little, Some Swearing, Songfic, Sorry Not Sorry, This song is literally made for Elliot, because I like gender-neutral Elliot, first songfic, only first verse and chorus, talk of drug use, this was hard to write, tried to keep it gender-neutral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 15:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7367470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRoseKingOfLegend/pseuds/TheRoseKingofLegend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you insane like me? Been in pain like me?"</p>
<p>Elliot has. And he wants it all to stop. </p>
<p>Songfic for the song Gasoline by Halsey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first songfic, and I'm really proud of it. I didn't use the whole song, because the fic would have been eighty pages long if I had. But hey, you get the gist. Please please please send me feedback. I love hearing from you guys.

_"Are you insane like me? Been in pain like me?"_

You can’t decide which is worse. The itching feeling you always have of being watched, followed. You know it’s crazy, you’re crazy, but the thought is always there, scratching at the back of your brain like a rusty nail. Or the overwhelming sense of loneliness that comes from isolating yourself like you do. You cry a lot, probably more than is normal for a person of your age. But the sadness settles over you like a blanket, shrouding you and making it hard to breathe. Sometimes you’re lucky and you can hold it in until you’re safely locked away in your apartment, but sometimes, the tears fight their way out when you’re at work, or on the train home. You hate it, but so far, there’s nothing you’ve found that can ease your suffering quite like a good drug or two.

_"Bought a hundred-dollar bottle of champagne like me?_

_Just to pour that motherfucker down the drain like me?_

_Would you use your water bill to dry the stain like me?"_

Sometimes the urge is too great to resist. You’ll pull your hood up over your head and walk into the liquor store. You get a warning look from the clerk, but you ignore him and head right for the strong stuff. You have your hand on a bottle of whiskey when you see the display case full of expensive booze. You don’t even hesitate to scoop up a bottle of the champagne and then you walk to the register. You pay for the toxic liquid and then head back home. When you get there, you set the bottle down on the table and sit down, staring at it. It’s calling to you, and you want to heed it’s every beck and call. You rip open the foil at the top and then pop the cork. You have your hand on it, and you’re so close, but an image of your drunk father swims in front of your eyes and you get angry. Angry at him, for being a shitty father, angry at your mother for not doing anything about it, and angry at yourself for being so much like him. You stand and stomp over to the sink, dumping the booze down the sink and watching your hate swirl down the drain. When the bottle is empty, you’re still angry. So you smash the bottle on the floor. You scream a little, and you cry some more.

_"Are you high enough without the Mary Jane like me?"_

You always have weed on you, at all times. It’s like a security blanket. The same way that most people won’t leave home without their phones. You don’t often indulge in the herb unless it had been an especially stressful day, but there are times when it seems almost necessary. You hate that you smoke, but you can’t stop yourself. Sometimes you consider the possibility of being an addict, but then you dismiss the thought. Addicts use more than you, and you could quit any time, right? "Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?" You’re the classic self-deprecator. You know it, and you hate it, but you can’t change it. You never think you’re good enough. One of your favorite activities is to sit in a dark room and rip yourself apart piece by piece. You have a low end job at a shitty place of employment and you have no chance of working higher. You live in a shitty apartment by yourself. You have no real friends, because no one wants to be around you. Your parents don’t even like you. You know that if you were to ever say any of these things aloud, they would be too true for you to handle, so you keep this all inside. You hide yourself away in a tiny little black box with the words “NO TOUCHING” scrawled across the top.

_"Do people whisper ‘bout you on the train like me?"_

You can hear them. You can always hear them. But you choose to say nothing. People whisper, or sometimes just say it out right. They are scared of you. That strange little person sitting on the train all by themselves, wearing a black hoodie in the middle of summer, listening to music or something. They avoid you, and you want so badly to stand up and say something sarcastic or witty to them, but your legs and your mouth are both telling you to sit down and shut up. So you stare at the floor and say nothing. You keep your hands and feet inside the rides at all times, and you’re safe that way.

_"Saying that you shouldn’t waste your pretty face like me?"_

It’s the same old thing whenever you see family or friends. “You’re so handsome. You could do better”. “You could do great things in the world with that face”. “You should make more of an effort on your appearance. People will like you more”. You’re tired of hearing it, and frankly, you disagree. You’re not exactly plain, but there’s nothing special about the way you look. Your eyes are a dull shade of gray-green, your hair is dark brown and cut in a boring fashion. There’s nothing stunning or unique about you, and you wish people would just shut the fuck up and realize that. You don’t make an effort because what’s the point? Being pretty isn’t going to get you any further up the food chain. You’re stuck with your face, and you might as well learn to deal.

_"And all the people say,_

_You can’t wake up, this is not a dream,_

_You’re part of a machine, you’re not a human being._

_With your face all made up, living on a screen,_

_Low on self esteem, so you run on gasoline."_

Society as a whole is like a not-so-well oiled machine. The people living around you are just cogs that fit and mesh together to keep this giant contraption up and running. When something is broken, they replace it with another piece, easy as that. And when one of those cogs rebels, causes a scene, they cover it up, shush it, hide it. You yourself are one of those cogs. You go to work, you take the train home, you sit on your couch and watch TV, you partake. But you’ll always want to rebel, no matter the consequences. Maybe someday you’ll work the courage up and just rip yourself apart from the others, forge your own path. But for now, you’ll stay where you are and revolve in slow circles, meshing. Remaining in your rightful place in the machine.


End file.
